


A Game of Light

by wicked_little_thing



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Clubbing, Drama, Gen, John is hot and bothered, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Sexual Tension, Sherlock is a Sex God, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wicked_little_thing/pseuds/wicked_little_thing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets someone new while out clubbing. AU - Alternate first meeting. Rating may be subject to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disguises and Decadence

**Author's Note:**

> On [FFN](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9853486/1/A-Game-of-Light), where there's an author's note about stuff.

The beat of an electro tune pounded through the heavy duty bass system; a secondary rhythm in John Watson's chest. Laser lights danced over the sizzling, jackhammer crowd. Raised arms and all assortments of hair and clothes peeked in and out of view, and the smell of perfume and deodorant drenched the atmosphere. Warmth from so many bodies crammed into one small space suffused the air, thickening it.

John let out a breath. Why was he here again?

"Trust me on this, John! This is a place where dreams are made!" Billy yelled into his ear, grinning like a wolf.

Right, that was why.

Bill Murray, army mate discharged like John himself for getting shot in the thigh. He'd roped John into catching up once he'd heard his return on the grapevine, and John had accepted amenably.

They'd gone to have a spot of dinner at a local bar, after which John had been ready to call it a night, but Bill had been persistent. In retrospect had he known where they would be going afterwards, John would have pled exhaustion and returned to doing nothing in his bland, repulsive excuse for a flat.

Clubs really weren't John's scene. Three Continents Watson's, definitely, but John wasn't that guy. Not anymore.

"The only dream I have right now is of my cosy bedsit!" John retorted, also raising his voice to be heard.

Bill only rolled his eyes; they both knew that wasn't quite true. Bill was no stranger to the mix of PTSD and the simple act of sleeping.

"Come on, just give it a shot. Given the chance, you might even find yourself having a bit of fun! Get yourself a bird maybe?" Billy gave him a look that John recognized, one that said, 'I know where you're at right now, and I think doing this might be good for you.'

It was the same look he'd been when they'd run into each other at Russell Square Gardens. After bumping into each other, they'd made conversation. Running into Bill and spending time with him was like having a comrade in arms once again. Even small talk wasn't all that abhorrent with Bill. They had an undercurrent of mutual understanding that civilian life was utter shite after what they'd done in the army, forming a bridge John had forgotten how to forge with normal people.

"I need a drink first, but I'll see you later yeah?" John thumped Billy's arm good-naturedly.

"So long as you don't run out on me," Billy gave him a knowing look.

"Never even crossed my mind," John smiled innocently.

Billy laughed and wandered into the fray, disappearing from view.

The dance floor took up the majority of the club, with the bar up against the right wall and the DJ on the left wall on a raised stage. John took it all in, including the exits, the staircases that led up to tables on the balcony, and the high ceiling with rows of poles suspending the lighting system. He took a deep breath to centre himself, then headed towards the minibar.

He took a seat, ordered a beer float and surveyed the arena. Right then, he was in no mood to go hunting, but he figured some alcohol would allow him to loosen up enough to have no reservations about joining the moving crowd.

"Why the long face?"

When John turned to look at who had spoken, it took him a moment to respond.

The man looked no older than 40, but his canvas white skin, artfully curled black locks and ridiculously high cheekbones made him look ageless in the transient atmosphere of the club. He had eerily light, almost luminescent eyes, and John couldn't quite decide on their colour. He was wearing tight, back jeans and a purple fitted shirt that framed his wiry frame and made John's stomach twist at the sight – but also wary, because there was something off about the man. He was looking at John with light-hearted curiosity, but there was a humming, a roiling, intense undercurrent to the man's perhaps forcibly relaxed posture that made John instantly intrigued and hypersensitive to potential trouble.

He could be wrong. It could just be his sleep-deprived, threat-honed-soldier brain kicking into first gear.

Without missing the beat, John gave him a polite, humouring smile and said, "Not as long as yours, so I think I'm doing pretty well."

The man seemed to give a genuinely surprised rumbling chuckle at that. John grinned, turned back to the gyrating crowd but watching the man out of the corner of his eye.

"You're not as mind-numbingly dull as I thought you'd be," the man continued, and when John turned back to look at him, he was considering John with a piercing, analytical look, one that contrarily looked less like a mask.

John's brow furrowed, "If you thought I'd be boring, why did you start up a conversation with me?"

The man returned to his easy look, slipping it on seamlessly.

"Maybe I was looking to be surprised," and he smiled a closed-mouth smile that looked more like a movement of muscles than a genuine flirtation.

John's gaze flicked down to the man's still widened mouth, back to his eyes and then away, suddenly unsure. In just a few sentences, he felt as if he was talking to two people in one body.

He pulled his phone out, checking for new messages or missed calls. Apart from one message from Harry insisting they catch up already, there was nothing. If Bill hadn't contacted him yet he'd probably gotten lucky, the bastard.

As if sensing John's sudden dwindling will to engage, the man leaned closer and ran his tongue along his bottom lip in a way that made the heat of the club inch just that bit higher.

"Dance with me?" he said, his voice a smooth rumble, with so little a questioning lilt at the end that it seemed almost like a command.

John barely gave an outward reaction except to shove the phone back into his pocket and put his drink down. With barely a glance at the possibly-dangerous stranger, he stood and made his way into the fray. The man followed. John didn't have to check to know.

This was a game he knew the ins and outs of very, _very_ well.

As soon as they were on the floor, John let the alcohol act as a lubricant for his stiff, tense muscles and moved with expert ease, slipping into an old skin like an old jacket. The man opposite him met him in the middle with ease, moving with a grace and strength reminiscent of feline predators, complete with a sharp gaze, beautiful and lulling bone structure and swaying, prowling, hypnotic advances. No glinting claws or teeth out to ruin the false sense of security just yet, but John wasn't fooled in the first place.

In fact, he felt a thrill at the idea that this could get ugly very quickly. The enigmatic stranger before him broadcasted the potential like a neon sign. So he kept up the thin façade of a normal bloke out for a decent time, and let the music take him.

Time became fluid as they drew closer together, eyes taunting each other under guises, bodies brushing with electrifying, revitalizing suggestion. Every second seemed bursting with detail, like a fog had been lifted from John's vision. The label of his shirt's collar scratched against his neck. He felt air rushing in and out of his mouth, his chapped lips, his heart pounding in his ears. Nothing had felt this clear and vibrant since Afghanistan, and it was _exhilarating_.

Just then, the man broke their rhythm by taking John's belt loops and dragging him closer. John's heart leapt into his throat. The man's breath flitted over John's ear and through his hair, and he smelt of musky tobacco, cologne and mint. He leaned in close but, infuriatingly, made no further contact. He spoke, in that voice like dark melted chocolate, and John forgot how to breathe.

"Follow me," he said, and in a blur he broke contact, walking towards one of the backdoor exits.

Adrenaline and arousal zinging through his veins in equal measure, John followed.

He reached the door as it was swinging shut and walked out. John had just enough time to feel the chill on his sweat-drenched skin before a force pinned him against the now closed club door.

Before John could gasp, the stranger had pressed a hand to his chin and forced his face upwards. He was glaring with a defiant, critical gleam that John was starting to sense was his proper state of being.

That gaze made everything else fade into a grey blur, exploding with a fierce intelligence that was difficult to ignore. John controlled his shiver of anticipation – whether this man meant him harm or meant to kiss him, John would happily go with either feeling the way he did right now: tingling in his skin, mind racing, heart thumping, blood fiery, and so very _alive_.

"How have you done it?" the timbre voice was trembling with ferocious excitement.

Now John was confused, "Done what?"

"You know perfectly well _what_ ," the man returned, eyes flashing.

"No, actually I don't," John replied hoarsely.

"Don't play dumb!" a little shake of John's arms accompanied the insistent reply.

"I'm not playing anything right now," John's brow scrunched together.

They glared at each other for a long while. John was getting a bit irritated now. If the man wasn't going to do anything interesting soon, John would have to break the hold and just go find Bill – and he was perfectly capable of getting free, the man's hold wasn't exactly up to par with a trained, skilled officer such as John.

But god, his mouth. That mouth was mesmerizing in the streetlight. How hadn't John noticed it properly before? It was gorgeous. Jesus. Especially so when it was moving.

Moving. Right. He was speaking.

"… but frankly it's about time you dropped the innocent façade seeing as it's quite obvious you've been caught. You're wasting both of our time," the man's teeth were clenched with haughty impatience.

John pursed his lips and said nothing. The man's expression changed, faltering as he shifted on his feet.

"You really have no idea what I'm talking about," he said in a low voice, not quite a question.

John shook his head, "Not one."

With that the man immediately broke his hold on John. He began pacing up and down the alleyway with his hands held together under his chin in the parody of a prayer, muttering under his breath.

"… illogical … doesn't add up … but the facts _fit_ ," strings of words floated to John's ears as he watched the apparent madman have some sort of breakdown.

"Um," John started, but didn't quite know how to finish.

_Um, sorry to interrupt but do you think we could go back to getting each other off?_

He shook his head, smiling disbelievingly at how quickly the situation had flipped on its head.

The man seemed to register John's presence once more and gave him a quick once-over with his eyes, then waved a hand dismissively.

"Oh you can go, I've no further need of you," and his voice was now clipped and refined.

Not only the words but the crisp eloquence with which they had been so naturally expressed made John's jaw drop.

"Wha - I'm sorry?" John tried to hide his wince at how his own voice had pitched embarrassingly higher than usual.

"I said, 'You can go, I've no further need of you.' How much simpler must I put it for you to understand?" the man snapped, voice prickling with disdain.

"I understood you perfectly fine, thank you, but I'm still confused about _why_ you'd chosen to chat me up, dance with me, drag me outside with the possibility of getting off and then accuse me of doing … something …" John trailed off.

What more did he even know about the guy? Hell, he hadn't even got a name out of him! What could this man possibly have against John, a total stranger?

The man came to a stop in front of him and turned so that they were facing each other. His entire posture had changed, John realised. Like he'd shaken off a weight that had been resting on his shoulders.

Or a costume.

Grey, bright eyes attempted to pry John open. He seemed to be deciding something or other, and he tilted his head before bowing it for a second, resting one hand in another behind his back. He raised his head soon afterwards, decision made.

"Isn't it obvious?" he said, and maybe the tone was a bit less irritated this time.

Maybe. A bit.

"I – no, it's really not," John replied, crossing his arms.

"Well, let's look at the facts, shall we? I'm was putting on an act to get something from you, you knew that right away, I could see it in the way you were looking at me when I dropped my persona for a moment. The most obvious question to ask following this, then, would be what could I possibly want from you? Generally, people in clubs want one of three things – to talk about their dull lives, to drink themselves even more stupid than usual, or to have sex. Sometimes all three."

The man was talking at a lightning-fast speed, his voice like rumbling thunder, and John was feeling a bit thunderstruck himself. He wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgewise if he tried.

"I deliberately led you to believe I wanted at least the latter, and you followed me outside accordingly. However, you seemed confused when I questioned you. 'How have you done it?' I said. Obviously, I put on an act to get you alone in order to find out some information," and then he waited, a cue for John to say something.

"Information – about what? Some kind of illegal, undercover operation I'm a part of?" John scoffed lightly, smiling bemusedly.

"Precisely," and the man's face was devoid of humour and perfectly serious.

John stared at him, "But I haven't done anything!"

Liquid silver eyes sparked and the man tensed up again, a trigger pulled tight.

"Yes, we've established that, thank you," and the man seemed personally offended by the fact of John's innocence.

John's head was a mess of confused, knotted questions. The one that stood out the most was, 'What the hell?'

"Okay, so you were looking for someone that had information on some kind of 'illegal, undercover operation,' and you thought it was me. But you were wrong," John said slowly, pursing his lips.

The man gave him a slightly mocking look of approval.

"So good to see you keeping up. Yes, I was _wrong_ ," he hissed the word, "You happen to fit the criminal profile the Yard drafted up almost to the letter. The only physical difference I'd discerned was your height and perhaps your ears."

"My height? Are you calling me short?" John frowned.

A little smirk graced those elegant lips, "Touchy subject?"

John narrowed his eyes, "No. Don't change the topic. Why are you hunting down a criminal that _almost_ fits my physical description? A physical appearance is not enough to be accusing people of breaking the law!"

With an exaggerated roll of the eyes, the man gave a loud exhale, "Don't be stupid, of course I have more incriminating data on the suspect than a policeman's haphazard criminal profile."

"Such as?"

But the man was back to pacing, traversing the depths of his mind. John was starting to get the impression that he might not be _entirely_ unjustified in his arrogance, with his raven eyes and lightning words. Still, he was bloody rude.

The pacing stopped abruptly and the (probably) alien man raised his head. His eyes widened as if in great realization, and he let out a breathy little 'oh'.

John was immediately wary, but did not expect to find those eyes centimetres from his own _again_. Bloody hell. Eyes like those could make the straightest flagpole bend. And he was _touching_ him too. Gripping his upper arms like they were a vice. John's mind flashed to a totally different circumstance and he hurriedly tried to control his rising blush. Christ, was the gripping thing _wholly_ necessary?

Then that decadent mouth opened, and a stream of logic began pouring forth.

"You didn't want to come to the club this very night. Your slumped shoulders, your steadfast focus on your drink, and only vaguely interested eyes as you surveyed the crowd tells me that. So what reason could you have for being here? Could be your therapist, but she would hardly suggest a club as a way of getting used to civilian life again and being a typical soldier you've probably grown to understand how emotions operate, likely trust yourself to keep your emotions in check, thus effectively disregarding others' opinions on the matter. Could be family, but going by your phone you've got no more than an alcoholic sister in that department. So, friend. Oh, but what _kind_ of friend? You, an ex-army doctor just invalided out a month ago, suffering from PTSD and a psychosomatic limp. What friend could you possibly have, one that you would be willing to engage with in your current state of mind?"

John's mind was reeling, like a hamster wheel spinning but not going anywhere. He was so stunned that he missed being pushed to the side, and barely registered the door swinging shut behind the blinding, bewildering stranger.


	2. Rapid Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this counts as an illegal, undercover operation. Feel free to pick at this to your heart's content in the comments! Although love is preferred ;) x

By the time John managed to snap himself out of it and re-enter the club in pursuit of the stranger who knew too much about him to bloody _be_ a stranger, a lot had changed.

The cleaning lights were on, the music had been turned off, and the previously hyped group of clubbers were voicing their complaints with shouts and boos as they were hustled out by a few police officers in neon colours and people that John could only assume to be plain clothed officers.

Right in the centre of the club, previously the dance floor, was the stranger. John could see the proper colour of his shirt, now. It was a royal purple, and it accentuated the man's pale skin and unruly curls. There was an effortless, controlled grace with which the man was gesturing and speaking, and John had to grab a hold of his tangential lustful thoughts.

A second man stood next to him, this one in a long coat who had an air of bone-tired, long-suffering acceptance. John couldn't help but feel a flash of sympathy for the obviously overworked man.

They weren't alone.

"Bill? What the hell – oi! What do you think you're doing?" John yelled as the second man, the one in the coat, pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped a set of handcuffs onto Bill's wrists.

By the time John had made his way over, Bill had his hands behind his back, handcuffed. He was grinning for no reason John could discern.

"Don't worry Johnny, all part of the plan," Bill winked at him.

"What?" John's eyebrows drew together.

He glanced at the quirky stranger and his accomplice, and they had both fixed Bill with a heavy glare. John's stranger had narrowed his eyes and raised his hands in mock prayer beneath his chin, and his eyes were sharp enough to pierce Bill's skin.

John was so done with it all. What the _hell_ was going on?

Although it hadn't escaped his notice that his left hand hadn't shaken all night.

"Bill, mate, what are you doing?" John asked.

Bill just stood there, grinning like he'd won the lottery.

Trench Coat glanced at John then, before asking, "Who are you then?"

"I'm his mate. Who are you, and just what exactly are trying to accomplish arresting an innocent man?" John said in patience-masked anger.

Instead of replying, the salt-and-pepper haired man glanced at the man in purple and pointed a thumb at John, "He a part of it?"

He received a short, "No," in response.

"Right then," and he shrugged apologetically at John, "Sorry about this mate. I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Well, Inspector, you've got the wrong man," John replied.

"No no no, it's definitely him," John's stranger interrupted with a dismissive tone, "But the question is _how_? How could an ex-soldier turn into an assassin over barely two months? Now, with PTSD, an aimless murderer would fit better – unable to cope with civilian life, you decide to take it out on the world at large with an illegal weapon smuggled over from where you served. But no, these kills were executed with pinpoint accuracy _every_ time, bullet through the forehead. No passion involved at all, and then there were the notes. Every victim, left with a small _note_. What kind of killer, never mind assassin, leaves intentional yet vague clues by the body – helpful hints to anyone who knows how to use their brain? You did this for another reason, but _what_?"

The man began circling Bill like some kind of jungle cat and John stepped instinctively closer, but Bill only followed the wiry man with excited eyes.

"This is ridiculous," John muttered, only to have the rapid-fire monologue continue.

"All the victims were linked. Barely, yes, but all linked in that they all attended a single seminar on computer technology years ago. _You_ could not have uncovered the information of their attendance, or the times and places each victim would be vulnerable, with such a small data trail left behind. The trail was next to invisible, and a man with lesser intelligence than I would not have been able to spot it. No, you're not a skilled hacker, you don't have the posture or the eyes or the legs for it. Your stance and your bearing only read military. So, you haven't been working alone. It was one of the more likely preliminary ideas I'd had – obviously you're the brawn but who is the brain and more importantly, how do they fit into this?"

Bill's mouth was open in obvious delight, "Wow, they told me you were good, but no, really, you are _good_."

"Very. Now tell me who you're working for," the man had stopped pacing.

Bill laughed, "That's not for me to say."

Before the man could no doubt spite Bill to death, another man in a suit with gel-slicked hair and a scowl had joined the small group.

He interrupted from beside the D.I., "Excuse me? I'm the manager of this joint, right, and I don't mean to be rude but would you mind moving this along? There's a bit of riot going on outside, and I don't want this episode to cause property damage."

The D.I. nodded wearily, "Sure thing mate. C'mon Sherlock, we can interrogate him at the Yard."

 _Sherlock_ , John thought. So that was his name.

Sherlock had not taken his eyes off Bill's throughout the exchange, and it looked like they were having a bizarre staring contest. Bill was still grinning, and it was starting to tick John off. What the hell was he so happy about?

Abruptly, Sherlock broke contact to address the inspector, "That won't be necessary Lestrade. Someone's given him an incentive to keep quiet; he won't talk."

"So we give him an incentive _to_ talk! He's murdered five people, Sherlock, there's a lot we can hold over his head," Lestrade pressed with barely present patience.

Sherlock rolled his eyes melodramatically, which seemed to be a habit of his, "Really, Lestrade. Just look at him, really look; he's lucid, he's perfectly aware of what he's done, and he knows that aside from those vague little hints that _you_ could barely make sense of, _nothing_ links him to the murders, never mind proves he committed them. We know that whoever orchestrated this is clever, so it's likely nothing will be found in this man's house or his haunts. What are we left with? No motive, no weapon, and no means linked directly to him. _I_ know he did it and _you_ know he did it, but the evidence – or lack thereof - won't hold up in court until we find the person behind this sack of meat. Feel free to ask him all the questions you want, but I refuse to waste my time."

John stared after Sherlock's retreating back, and decided he'd had enough of this shit.

He turned to Bill and said, "Don't worry mate, I'll sort this out."

Bill, forever the dealer of wit and dry jokes, did nothing but wink cheekily. Bizarre. John shook his head and smiled wryly.

 _So much for nothing ever happening to me,_ he thought dryly.

Leaving Lestrade to take his friend away, John hurried to follow Sherlock. He found him near the entrance, retrieving a few extra layers of clothing from the lockers where other club goers' belongings still sat.

"Bill's innocent," John said with conviction.

Sherlock turned his head halfway towards John, looking over his shoulder and keeping John in his peripheral as he raised a haughty eyebrow.

"Oh?" Sherlock said, seemingly hearing John out for the moment.

"You said so yourself, you don't have any solid evidence. The burden of proof rests with you," John said, crossing his arms.

Sherlock donned his coat and scarf and put his gloves in his pocket before turning and striding up to John. Barely a metre apart, John stood up straighter and looked Sherlock in the eye, standing his ground.

"And you think you could beat me in a battle of wits?" Sherlock said quietly, intensely.

"This isn't about you or me, and it's not about wit. This is about accusing a man of murder who, _like you said_ , had no incentive, means or –" but John was cut off.

"No, I said that he had no motive to murder those five people, but he certainly had an incentive. I just haven't figured it out yet," Sherlock took to staring into the middle-distance, thinking.

"Right, well, he _couldn't_ have done it without coercion. Bill's a good man, and he wouldn't kill people in cold blood. I know it. So you're wrong, and you–"

"I'm not wrong. I'm never wrong," Sherlock said, and if he had feathers they would have puffed out in indignation.

"Don't forget you accused _me_ of killing those people, and I know for a fact that I did not," John gave a polite, dangerous smile.

Sherlock's gaze snapped down to John's again, and there was a fire licking behind those irises that did not escape John's notice.

"But I was right about everything else, wasn't I?" Sherlock said, tone clipped.

That gave John pause.

"Yes, how did you know all of that stuff about me?" John asked, running his tongue over his dry lips.

"I didn't know, I saw. It's what I do," Sherlock gave a wide, close-lipped smile, entirely fake, and flipped his coat collar up.

He made to walk past John, but John held up a hand, "No, wait. Explain. What do you mean, you saw?"

Sherlock gave a huge sigh, but John had the feeling that it was just for show – he _wanted_ to explain.

"Your haircut is short, trim and nothing more. The way you hold yourself – shoulders back, steadfast gaze, legs slightly apart, for example – parade rest. You have a tan, but none above the wrists. All of this says military. You have a limp when you walk, but you're not walking with a cane and when you were dancing it was as if you'd forgotten about it. So, at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury you received were traumatic. Therefore, you were wounded in action. An ex-soldier with PTSD, which has manifested in the form a limp. You haven't been out for long, because the tan is still quite clear and your hair is still military-short. You were patched up and as soon as you were well enough, shipped home. The clothes you're wearing are hardly proper clubbing material – they're simple, durable, and at least two years old going by the stitching and the fading labels. I overheard you and Murray talking, and you mentioned your bedsit, and that's not seeing but it _is_ paying attention. So, you're living on your own, and you haven't replaced your old clothes. It's unlikely you have a family that would have you stay with them or lend you money, never mind an extended one. Hand me your phone," Sherlock held out a hand.

John didn't break eye contact and pulled it out of his pocket, slapping it into the taller man's palm.

"Expensive, mp3 enabled, camera – a young person's gadget. The engraving on the back, 'Harry Watson, From Clara,' three kisses. You aren't Harry – if you had enough money to afford this phone you wouldn't be living in a bedsit. It has scratches and marks on it; it's had a previous owner then. Harry, your sister. She could be a cousin, but as I said, it was unlikely you had any extended family. Now, who's Clara? The three kisses says romantic attachment; the cost of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. But the model is only six months old and she's already giving it away. Ex-wife then. Harry gave the phone to you, meaning Harry left Clara. She would have kept it if Clara left her – people do such things, sentiment. Giving the phone to you says she wants you to stay in touch. Now, her name: Harry. I could have easily assumed she was in fact a _he_ , but see here?"

John finally forced his gaze away from the man's face to look at his phone, which Sherlock was holding with the charger slot facing upwards.

"Small flakes of pink and orange caught in the grazes – nail polish. You aren't the sort of man to wear any this colour, if at all, so it belonged to the previous owner of this phone. Wasn't all too difficult to spot in the light of the bar, although you seem to have missed it. I must thank you for that, or I never would have entertained the possibility of Harry being short for another name such as Harriet or Harietta. I did assume that you didn't have a _brother_ who wore nail polish, but statistical probability states it would more likely have been a woman as opposed to a man."

When Sherlock met John's eyes once again, John had to swallow down his heart. Never mind racing, it felt like the bloody organ had stalled. His mind was buzzing, and he didn't know what he would have done if he didn't have an iron grip on his emotions.

He cleared his throat, "You said she was an alcoholic."

Sherlock smirked, "Bit of a shot in the dark. Scratch marks around the charger slot. Her hands shook when she attempted to plug the phone in. Never see a drunk's phone without them."

John blinked. Jesus _Christ_.

"Well?" Sherlock said impatiently.

"What?" John croaked.

"Was. I. Wrong?" he said through his teeth, each word a sentence.

"No, no. You got everything," John replied, shaking his head disbelievingly.

This seemed to satisfy Sherlock, because he eased up a bit on the intensity of his gaze.

"Good," he said.

"That was amazing," John couldn't help but say, perhaps a bit embarrassingly, but he didn't want to take it back.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, "You think so?"

"Yes! You got all that just by looking at me and my phone and overhearing a short conversation. It was bloody fantastic!" John was grinning.

Sherlock just looked at him like he'd just sprouted a couple of heads.

John tried to wipe the grin off his face and get a hold of himself. Hell, he'd meant to confront Sherlock and set him straight, not _flirt_ with the guy!

"I mean, well –" John sighed and broke off, "Who are you, anyway? What do you do? You work with the police but – you're not one of them, are you?"

Sherlock was staring at him, gaze like a searchlight, and John was frozen to the spot. He tried not to buckle under the pressure, the heat, of the man's gaze but it was a near thing.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said finally, "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

John gave a little snort and a wry smile. No sense of humility, this one.

"Nice to know your name, Mr Holmes. John Watson," and he smiled and held out a hand.

"Sherlock, please."

They shook hands, but both broke contact a bit quicker than courtesy dictated. A pause followed.

Then abruptly, Sherlock asked, "Why do you believe Bill Murray is innocent?"

John blinked before glancing away, thinking about how to word it for a moment.

"He's a good friend of mine," he met Sherlock's gaze again, "We've known each other since med school. He's almost like a brother to me. I _know_ him. I have known him for a long time, and I know that he doesn't have it in him to be a murderer."

"You keep saying that, but why? _Why_ do you think that knowing someone is enough justification for them not to be a murderer?" Sherlock pressed.

Something in John settled, then, and he held steadfast.

"Because despite the apparent evidence to the contrary, he's a good guy," John said, quietly intense, "And I believe in him."

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think! :)


End file.
